


The Thread That Stretches and Tangles

by Compoundeyes



Series: The Red Thread Of Baby BatCat [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Baby BatCat, Baby BatCat grown up?, BatCat, Bruce is only mentioned, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kind of a sequel maybe, POV First Person, Rated T for Safety, Red Thread of Fate, Selina Thinking A Lot, six years later, time skip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3040244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Compoundeyes/pseuds/Compoundeyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Why do I keep this thread binding me to you? I've been wondering that a lot since you left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thread That Stretches and Tangles

**Author's Note:**

> Since I've been taking so darn long updating "Simply Complex" (which is likely to continue being stagnant for a little longer due to Pokemon Alpha Sapphire, sorry :C) I thought I'd post something, just for shiggles. Kind of a sequel to "The Thread That Binds You", kind of a Christmas present. And I'll probably make it a trilogy now, because I'm compulsive like that. Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, and I hope you enjoy!

I hate having bonds. Did you know that about me? I’ll bet you did. You know a lot about me. Not everything, don’t be fooled into thinking I trust you enough to tell you everything, but you know more than most people. I hate connections, ties. Having connections on the street is useful, necessary, and a skill in some ways. But _connections_ , those are what I know better than to keep. Bonds don’t benefit you through money, food or anything else practical. They hurt and they rip you up inside for no good reason, and in the worst of cases I’ve seen people die over them. I hate them. That’s why I try not to form any.

 

So why do I keep this thread binding me to you?

 

I’ve been wondering about that a lot since you left. Traveling, you say. I say you just want to get the hell out of this toilet we call home, but tomato, tomahto. I wondered about it as sleet pricked my face, stinging my cheeks, soaking me even under my jacket, sending shivers through my bones, I wondered why I keep you in my life. You know me, always picking the worst times to think about the strangest things.

 

I also have the worst luck _in the world_. I was going along, minding my own business, robbing a couple mansions when the chilling rain turned into a freezing sleet and I know full well that snow and ice are soon to follow. And obviously I don’t have a car. Who can afford a car in the city, much less find a safe place to park it where I live? Cars get stripped and looted if you’re not watching them closely, a hassle I don’t need. You have a car. You have at least a dozen cars, I’m sure. But little alley cat isn’t so blessed. Why do I keep you in my life if you cause so much envy in said life?

 

Luckily for me, I’m close to that friggin’ castle you call home, and maybe I know how to disable your security and maybe I like to go stay there once in a rare while. Just because the beds are nicer. No other reason. Truly. I don’t have to justify myself to you, you’re not even here. You’re just on my mind. A lot. All the time. And I know you wouldn’t care if you were home, so why should it matter now? As another shiver nearly doubled me over, I told myself it didn’t matter and I forced my tight, aching muscles onward toward Wayne Manor.

 

Maybe this is why I keep you around? So I can use your house when you’re gone? It’s a stretch, a lie, but it quiets my mind until I can get there.

 

I hate sleet too. Hate it.

 

I disabled your security in less than a minute. Really Bruce? Really? I hope you intended to be robbed. Climbing up and jimmying the balcony lock, I quickly slipped into your study—your dad's study. Yeah, I listen. Not well, but I listen. And I start peeling off my wet, heavy clothes while fighting back shakes, sliding out of my soaked and half frozen jeans and sneakers, throwing my jacket and hoodie aside, only keeping on underwear and my tank top because I'm feeling modest.

 

Wrapping up in a blanket from the couch, I shuffle my way over and start a small fire in the fireplace, letting the solitary log be my source of heat and light. I stay close to it for a while, but once I regain some control over my body, I decide to look around a little because pieces of your personality are scattered through the room and I'm back to thinking about you.

 

Your desk is cluttered, yet I know you have everything just where you want it, just where it's easiest for you in each items particular use. I know this because I know you pretty darn well too. I see you have a picture of you and your parents among other things, and as I tilt it up to look, I realize just how much you've grown since we met. Since I first laid eyes on you. A broken little boy with his parents' dead bodies sprawled around him, sobbing and screaming, alone in his misery. Now, you're a young man—who's significantly taller by the way—and you've grown a stoic elegance in public, a mask you're becoming familiar with wearing in the outside world and around those foreign to your trust, but you couldn't hide who you are underneath from me even if you wanted to.

 

I could see your strength that night in the alley. And now I can see your anger, a fierce fire that burns for justice. The flame is wild and rampant and although you barely have control over it sometimes, you've spent years training to harness it even though you have absolutely no idea what you're going to do once you obtain that control. But you're driven, I know it, see it. I like that about you. I think you're stupid for wanting to make a difference in the unchangeable world and I think you're a freak for wasting so much time and effort on skills you'll never achieve, much less use, but I like that you're determined in your goals anyways. I like that you refuse to roll over and give up and be a victim. Even if that's what you were, you refuse to accept it.

 

You stubborn thing, you.

 

Running my fingers along the grain of the wooden desk, I continue on to the other side where your board is filled with pictures and newspaper clippings. I can't read any of them in this low flickering light, nor do I care to, but I know your mind is probably chewing on every word and every photo pinned into the corkboard. You never let things go, I'm well aware of that. Proof is that you still have things about your parents' murder pinned on the other side, even after more than six years.

 

Working my way around the room, I eye some of your knick-knacks, toy with some of them to find out what they do and why you keep them—speaking of keeping, I'm keeping this one. You don't need it, trust me—then roam back and absently let my fingertips trace over the armor you maintain in the corner. Why you have a knight in here I'll never know, maybe you just like the idea of a hero. I think heroes are myths, no one is selfless enough to carry that label, but you seem like you would enjoy the thought. I wonder why I care what you think or why. I wonder why I care that I can't ask you. I wonder why I care that you're gone.

 

Moving to the window, I can see the sleet has indeed turned to snow, and quite a heavy snow at that. You don't mind the cold, never have. Such a heavy blanket of white being laid down on the grass draws a smile to my face. Remember that time you pushed me into a snow drift? Remember? You laughed so hard until I caught you and shoved snow down your pants. I've never seen a person shimmy and wiggle like that as you tried to work out the bits falling down your pant legs. I've never heard you curse quite so much either. That was fun to tell Alfred. It served you right and you know it.

 

We came in after that, you changed and I borrowed some old clothes while mine dried. Remember how we came down here and sat in front of your fireplace? You were so nervous when I got under your blanket with you, and that's why I did it. Making you uncomfortable is fun. We got warm together and had hot chocolate, and you got scolded for swearing like a sailor. We talked for hours, snuggled together for far longer than we needed to under the guise of "warming up" and everything was perfect. That feels like a lifetime ago even though it's really only been a few years. It's a fond memory I hold onto, do you?

 

I would kill to have you here right now to cuddle up with under a blanket again.

 

With a sigh, I go back to the fire and curl up in front of it alone, watching the small flame dance about and listening to it crackle. How much have you grown since I saw you last? When you left, you were tall, thin, a beam pole. You've wanted to put on muscle, however you're not a complete weakling in the first place, no matter how much I insist you are. You've just got lean muscle and I think it's all your body would allow you at your age. It goes hand in hand with your bizarre training, you want to be stronger.

 

I wonder what you look like now, since you've been absent almost two years. I wonder if you still have boyish features. You were "cute" when you left, will you have grown out of "cute" and in its wake become something more mature? And I wonder what you sound like, if your voice still has that crack or if it finally smoothed out. I wonder what you'll be like, are you still quiet or will you have come out of your shell? Will you still be Bruce or will you be a familiar body hollowed of everything familiar?

 

How has time changed you? How have you evolved away from my eyes? I wonder…

 

I wonder something else too, this one makes my stomach churn in an unpleasant way which is why I try to avoid it and can't. It twists up very much like it did when I first saw you on a date with some girl. And I don't know why it flips every time I wonder if you've kissed someone else, but you could set your watch by it now because sure enough every single time my mind wanders back to the thought of some dimwit Barbie doll claiming your mouth my guts wring themselves. It only irked me before you left. Irked me and I could deal with it I guess. Then you fled Gotham and when you said goodbye to me—the way you said goodbye to me…

 

You have no right to make me feel this way, Bruce.

 

You have no right to make me miss you or think about you or anything else. Are you happy? Satisfied? There are tears pricking my eyes, _tears_. Who are you to play with my emotions like this? Who are you to kiss me the way you did? Who do you think you are?

 

When I kissed you before, it was different. I was thanking you or teasing you or just trying to surprise you. Then you dated other girls and we sat squarely in the friendzone, and I didn’t like seeing it—you did realize they only wanted expensive presents, right?—yet I knew where we stood when I saw magazines with you sticking your tongue down one of their throats. I knew what I was to you and I knew what you were to me. You were my friend. Are you still my friend? I’ve always had you there, ready to be honest with me, ready to make me feel better, hell you even keep a room upstairs ready just for me even though I have my own place. So why does it feel like our tie is severed and I might as well be missing my arm that’s how gaping your absence is?

 

I used to have solid footing when it came to us, I knew exactly what we had. Now? I’m in quicksand and I have no idea where it goes or how deep it is and all because of you. All because of that kiss.

 

Burying my face in my blanket, the wonderful, horrible event replays in my head for the umpteenth time. I had come to visit you that night, you were leaning on your desk like usual while you looked between your board and files you had scattered on your desk. I set out to harass you, slinging my arm around the back of your neck and joining you in looking back and forth, sitting up on your desk and purposefully tugging some papers out from your line of sight, and sliding under you so you leaned over me instead. You got that exasperated look I find so very enjoyable, and I giggled before slipping around you so you could get back to your boring detective work.

 

Then you caught my wrist.

 

I looked down at the offending hand, giving you a look that told you to let me go immediately, but an expression was on your face, and I could tell you were serious. You said you needed to tell me something, I stepped a little closer. “I’m leaving Gotham for a while. Not permanently, but for… a few years.” I tried not to let my surprise show through, but in reality I was in shock. I asked you why, but you just said you were traveling. I still call B.S. on that.

 

I didn’t believe you were coming back. I nodded, forced a smile on my face, told you to have fun as I started to pull away, but you didn’t let go of me. Why didn’t you let me go? Let me believe you wanted nothing to do with me or this city anymore? You said wait, I tried to shake your hand off of me, and you reeled me back unceremoniously into a kiss.

 

You kissed me like you were going off to war, like you weren’t sure if you would make it back. You kissed me like you love me, Bruce. We’re too damn young to be feeling anything close to love, but apparently you didn’t get the memo ‘cause that’s what it felt like. My knees were weak, I swayed into you because I couldn’t stand on my own, and you just flattened one hand on my back and cupped my cheek with the other. I never thought you had it in you to be the dominant one, you proved me wrong as you seemed to be memorizing my taste. You were thorough just like in everything else you do, but gentle, your fingers sliding around on my back as you indiscreetly felt my curves and completely melted me.

 

And I don’t even know how long you kissed me—it was a while though—our breathing had become heavy when you pulled away like you needed to. Would you have stayed in Gotham if I hadn’t let you go?

 

The way you looked at me is burned into my brain. Like I was something so precious, you thought you might die because you wouldn’t get to see it anymore. “I’m coming back.” You finally said softly, sounding like you were reassuring yourself as much as you were me. Your thumb slid back and forth across my cheek, and there was a long silence between us before I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I don’t know what caused it, if it was the thought of you leaving or sheer terror from all the emotions overloading my system, but all I knew was I had to go. And that’s what I told you. I have to go.

 

Now, you let me. Now, there was no fighting for me, no desperation to keep me. You released me completely, some kind of hurt on your face, and I couldn’t look at you anymore. I paused at the door long enough to hear you say goodbye, then I ran from your house like I was running from the devil himself. And you really left. You left me behind, wallowing in our last interaction and haunted by you because I’m so confused and scared of the answers, you have no idea, but I can’t let it go.

 

Quiet sobs force out of my throat, my body curling up tighter on itself with confusion and hurt dragging tears out. Tell me where we are, Bruce. Just tell me, say that we are, aren’t, could be or won’t be, but please tell me. Because for all I know, you could be out there right now having completely moved on, no regard for my feelings or what it is you’ve done to me.

 

But that doesn’t seem like you, does it?

 

The tears slow, sobs cease upon that thought. You’re the one person that’s never intentionally spit on my feelings. You’re honest—a little too much for your own good—but you’re not cruel. You never have been, I’m confident you never will be. Out of everyone I know you’ve tried the hardest to connect with me, actively pestering me about my life before you and what I’m up to currently, never laying a hurtful hand or word on me unlike every other person.

 

I keep telling myself that as I watch the small fire wear out into smoldering embers and snuggle up on the couch, fatigue pulling at my eyelids. Perhaps our tie isn’t severed. Perhaps you’re out there somewhere thinking the same thing.

 

My stress and worry slowly boil away as I fall asleep, leaving me wondering one last thing. If I hate bonds so much, why don’t I want to cut the thread binding me to you? What makes you the exception to the rule? Is it because your house is a warm place to stay if I need it? Is it your friendship, more valuable than anything I could steal? Is it the way you kissed me, drawing me back to you like a magnet? Or is it something else entirely that’s been building under the surface for years now, maybe something I haven’t found or haven’t wanted to, a bond that’s deeper than those things and maybe, just maybe, one that keeps us joined no matter what? Something that _can’t_ be severed?

 

I don’t know the answer, I’m not going to pretend I do. All I know is that I want you back home—coincidentally with me—where you belong. And you better bring me souvenirs.


End file.
